


Grief

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Death, F/M, Grief, Illness, Scarletina, loss of a child, scarlet fever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25663753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: Captain Barbossa must deal with the deaths of his two youngest children.  Not even a lifetime of violent piracy and killing could have prepared him for what he would feel.An addendum to the AUThe Fate of His Bloodline.
Relationships: Hector Barbossa/His Children, Hector Barbossa/Original Female Character(s), Hector Barbossa/Sophie Barbossa, Hector Barbossa/Sophie Grantham, Hector Barbossa/The Innkeeper of Grantham House
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Grief

**Author's Note:**

> "Scarletina" was the term for scarlet fever during Barbossa's era. It is a strep infection, and was a leading cause of death in young children all the way through to the beginning of the 20th century. Because the Barbossa children's fever was sudden and the characteristic rash had not yet developed, the doctor diagnosed it from the illness's peculiar tongue rash called "strawberry tongue."
> 
> I contracted scarlet fever as a child, and I can tell you it's very unpleasant. Fortunately, we do have antibiotics to treat it; however, there is still no vaccine. Once on the decline, it has recently made a comeback and is responsible for many childhood deaths. 
> 
> "A brace" = two
> 
> "Martinho" was Barbossa's father's name. Just as the latter often called him "Heitor," (the Portuguese for "Hector") so he frequently calls his own son "Martinho."
> 
> By this time, Cassandra is married, with an infant of her own, so sending her potentially-infected siblings to her home would likely prove deadly. Her twin, Matthew Cezar, while still technically living at Grantham House, spends virtually all his time with the island's Blue John Hackett, with whom he has formed a fishing partnership. Alexander and Helen are substantially younger and also live with their parents.
> 
> "Careening" is pulling a ship out of the water and setting it on its side so that the hull can be scraped clean of barnacles and other debris, and patched up/refinished if need be.

-oOo-

"Ye're fevered, little girl," Barbossa says with a frown as 4-year-old Jacinda climbs tiredly onto his lap and settles her head on his chest. "How long ye been feelin' like this?"

"Unghhh…"

He doesn't want to yell, lest he disturb his daughter, so he lifts her up in his arms and goes to the chamber he shares with Sophie. "Somethin's wrong," he starts to say, before he notices that Sophie's rocking 2-year-old Martin, and there are lines of worry on her face. "Dove?"

"He's so hot," she frets.

Barbossa lays Jacinda down on the bed, then puts his hand on Martin's face. "Lord A'mighty, he's burnin'!" he exclaims. "Shall I fetch th' doctor?"

It's not a question; not really.

Whenever he's able, Barbossa has avoided doctors — the real ones, not the barber surgeons — because their knowledge makes him uneasy. He doesn't like feeling that he's ignorant or helpless, but this… When something feels really, really wrong, he doesn't care how he appears, if only everything can be made right again.

Leaving Sophie with a soft kiss and assuring her he'll be back in a tick, Barbossa pockets a purse of gold and sets off for the doctor's large house. "Ye'll give him this an' tell him it's a brace of wee babes what're needin' his attention," he barks at the butler who's sticking his nose in the air, slapping the purse into his hand. "M' good wife be in a right state 'bout it, an' I'm not feelin' inclined t' be charitable with ye tellin' me he won't do his job!"

The doctor appears a few moments later, his satchel in hand. "Two children, you say?" he asks.

"Aye: m' youngest. A son an' daughter."

"How old?"

"Two an' four."

The doctor has a carriage, but they can't take it — the lane up to Grantham House is too steep — so the two men walk briskly, side by side. It takes but a quick look in Jacinda's and Martin's mouths for the doctor to tell Sophie, "If you've other children here, get them gone."

"Why? What is it?" asks Sophie, her eyes wide and frightened.

"Scarletina." Any impatience the doctor might have felt has vanished, and all he can feel is pity. "These two are very sick, and if you have others, they'll get sick, too, if they aren't already."

"Hector!!" Sophie turns to Barbossa. "Take Alex and Helen to Blue John's and leave them with Mattie!"

"Would Cass not be better able t' look after 'em?"

"Not with her baby!" Sophie's near hysterical. "Oh, God! Oh, my God…!"

Barbossa takes her by the shoulders, careful of the shivering toddler in her arms. "Hisht, Dove, calm yerself," he tells her, although he's near to panicking himself. "Shh, I'll see t' it. Won't no one else get sick."

By the time he returns from taking his two middle children to safety, the doctor has gone and Sophie is a weeping mess. "He's done all he can," she hiccups, "and said all we can do is wait."

There is no suggestion of prayer, only a distant, fading hope. The little ones are put to sleep in their parents' bed while the latter watch over them, growing more and more exhausted as the hours pass, but rest is out of the question; if these are their children's last hours, then Sophie and Hector want every possible moment with them.

-oOo-  
-oOo-

Little Martin is the first to pass just past dawn, the fever and infection too much for his frail toddler's body. "Martinho?" Barbossa whispers, putting a finger under the boy's nose to see if he's breathing. "Martinho!"

Sophie's wails are muffled in the bedclothes as she clings to her youngest son. "No! No, no, no!"

Barbossa must clamp down on his own anguish, knowing he is the rock here; that keeping himself in control is the only hope his Sophie has not to give way to madness. His decades as a captain help him, only this feels far worse: losing his ship or his men angered him and drove him to revenge, but this is his son, conceived and born on this very bed, and the loss feels like a chunk of his heart has been hacked out with a dagger. Against whom shall he revenge himself? Fate? A God he barely believes in? A disease he knows even the doctor couldn't have cured? The random vagaries of life? There's no sense, no fairness to cutting down a child barely out of infancy.

For one moment, Barbossa's so enraged that he feels he might explode.

Then vengeful thoughts leave him as he kneels silently behind Sophie, his arms around her waist and his chin on her shoulder, so she can feel that she's not alone. How long they stay that way, he does not know, nor does it matter; all that does, is this shared mourning. But presently, he remembers the small girl lying fevered on the other side of the bed; she must be cared for, and then, there's Martin's grave to be dug, and he will not leave that dreadful privilege to anyone else. No careless gravedigger will touch the boy; no shroud will wrap him save it be one of Sophie's own clean linen sheets; no words will be spoken save by his parents.

"Dove," he murmurs. "Dove, ye must let me wash an' prepare him. Go tend t' Jacinda now an' don't worry; I know what must needs be done."

"My baby!" Sophie sobs.

"I know, Sophia, I know. But Jacinda needs ye now, so let me take our boy…"

"No!"

"Aye," says Barbossa firmly. "I'll do ev'rythin' what needs done, an' you take care of our girl. Mm?" He strokes Sophie's tear-stained cheek. "Please, Dove. Ye'd want to do right by Martinho; I know ye would. Let him go, now; he'll be wi' me."

Said that way, Sophie gives up the body of her son to her husband, who carries him, wrapped in the bedsheet, into the sickroom at the end of the corridor, while a fresh sheet is put on the bed for Jacinda to lie on.

Though he's loath to leave the little boy alone for even a single second, Barbossa knows that certain items must be gathered to properly prepare him for the grave. "Don't ye worry, Martinho," he whispers as he lays the boy gently down on the mattress and smooths back his hair. "Don't worry, I'll be back in a flash."

Though he knows little Martin can't feel it, Barbossa still takes the time to heat a kettle of water so it will be comfortably warm when he's washed. A slice of castile, a soft golden sponge, clean flour sacking; and, on the way up, he fetches two newly-washed sheets from the cupboard.

Barbossa has grown used, throughout his lifetime, to the noxious things that happen to the human body when it dies, but this is so different. His men weren't always careful to cleanse their dead comrades of blood and other, more unpleasant things before they gave them up to the sea, but Martin Barbossa's body will be spotless and fit for the angels when it goes into the grave. He uses the old sheet to wipe away the fever sweat and effluvia, wadding it up and setting it aside to be burned; then, using the flour sacking and warm water, gives him a preparatory wash from top to toe.

He does not rush this process, but takes the time, as he works, to examine and marvel at the little body. _I made this,_ Barbossa thinks. _Inside m' Dove, I planted this babe, an' he came int' th' world healthy an' howlin'._ A tear drips down his cheek, disappearing into his beard. _'Tain't fair, t' be deprived of life when he lived so little of it._

A second, more thorough wash with fine castile and water, applied with the sponge, follows the first, after which Barbossa combs his son's hair until it's dry. _What a fine, strong man he'd ha' grown into,_ he sighs to himself before he cuts off the thought. He has things to do before he can give way to his grief.

Sophie keeps a large jar of sweet-smelling lavender down in the pantry, which he fetches up to the room before he enshrouds the boy. Barbossa's hands shake as he sprinkles the dried blooms over Martin's body, then begins to fold the sheets around him.

Just before he veils his son's face, he returns to his bedroom. "Sophia," he says softly. "Dove, d' ye wish t' say yer farewells afore I cover him up? I'll watch o'er Jacinda…"

"Might you bring him in here, Hector?" Sophie sniffles. "I don't think I could bear looking without you to lean on."

"'Course, darlin'." Barbossa kisses her forehead and cheek, whispering, "Anythin' ye want."

Before bringing Martin's body back to the room, he pulls a mattress from a bed in another chamber and sets it on the floor so that the little boy will have something soft to lie on. "He looks like he's asleep," Sophie says, and Barbossa can hear how taut her voice is; how close she is to breaking.

"Come, now," he murmurs, his arm around her waist. "Come an' give yer babe a kiss afore I sew the sheet closed." 

Barbossa has to hold Sophie steady as she kneels beside their little boy and weeps over him, and it starts him to thinking about the months she was pregnant. He was ashore for much of it while his ship was beached for careening, and he feels himself privileged to have watched her grow from day to day. Three months at sea, and then he returned just in time for the birth.

He still recalls sitting in the tavern, waiting to be recalled to the house, and musing over the fact that he would now be a father six times over. _I reckon I been a good one, too,_ he thinks. _Me offspring's all fine an' handsome, an' they don't hate me._ Barbossa almost laughs at that thought; not that it's funny, but because he's proud. Children were the last thing he thought he'd ever have on his plate, but here he is: "A proud father," Sophie so often teased him.

A proud grandfather, too, to a babe not much younger than his Martin.

Sophie can't stop sobbing and pressing kisses all over her dead son's face, and Barbossa has to pull her back, wrapping her tightly in his arms and trying to hush her. "We've done th' best we could by him," he says tenderly, "but now it's time t' see t' Jacinda. Let Martinho rest here while I…" Dig his grave, is what he dare not say aloud.

-oOo-  
-oOo-

Martin's gravesite is chosen with care, in a well-drained spot at the side of the house, shaded by fruit trees. Barbossa digs until the sweat drips in his eyes, his shoulders burn, and his back is near to breaking, and then he digs some more until the grave is perfect: extra deep, with its bottom and edges smoothed. "D' ye want t' come out?" he asks Sophie.

She silently shakes her head. She cannot bear watching her child being given to the earth. 

Barbossa has no wish to pray as he carefully lifts Martin's linen-wrapped body down into the grave and sprinkles it with more lavender, along with handfuls of rosemary and thyme from Sophie's kitchen. Why would he, when the death of his boy might be a cruel joke perpetrated by whatever deity purports to be watching over the world? Instead, he murmurs those words that he's never told any of his children — not even Sophie: that he loves him and will never forget him, short though his life has been.

But in the end, knowing it's not her fault, he whispers thanks to Calypso for bringing him home to wed and to father all his children, commending Martin's soul to her as the son of a sailor.

Filling in the grave is accomplished in silence, and he marks it with a smooth white stone at its head; a stone that Martin used to sit on when he played in the yard. "Sleep well, m' boy," is all Hector whispers before he goes back into the house to wash off.

-oOo-  
-oOo-

Sophie grows pale over the next few days, with dark circles under her eyes, as she sits beside Jacinda, sponging her off and singing lullabies in a shaking, cracked voice. Even Cora is silent, and goes about her duties without complaint, doing the cleaning and preparing simple meals so that Sophie doesn't have to cook, before she returns home to her new husband.

With his other children away with Mattie at Blue John Hackett's, Barbossa has nothing to do except wait; that, and try to comfort Sophie when she lays her head on his shoulder and cries for the loss of her son and in fear for her daughter.

But they're not to be spared, and one week later, the worst happens: Jacinda's fever spikes and she draws her last breath in her mother's arms.

Perhaps it's the shattering grief of losing Martin just a few days before, but Sophie can no longer cry, not a single tear; all she can do is sit there, wide-eyed and disbelieving. Barbossa, though… 

With Martin's death, Hector somehow kept hold of himself and did what needed to be done without falling apart (at least, not too badly). But for all he's the toughest of men, he's always taken special pride in being a father of daughters, and losing Jacinda breaks him apart in a way he could not have imagined.

Sophie sits there, silent and dry-eyed, while Barbossa, distraught, begins to sob for his little girl; his pretty daughter who will never again laugh, never throw her arms around his neck in greeting, never wheedle him for a ride on his back as he crawls around on the floor. 

Who will never grow up to be a beautiful bride and a mother just like Sophie.

Once more, there's a child's body to wash and prepare; a second grave to be dug, and it's much harder this time. Sophie, grim and silent, is composed (or perhaps vacant) enough to take over Jacinda's care, choosing a pretty blue gown to dress her in and putting a blue ribbon on the cap that covers her auburn hair, while Hector digs a second grave next to Martin's, his tears wetting the earth as he shovels it out.

He wants to scream curses at the sky, but knows Jacinda would be frightened of his shouting, so he stays quiet as he puts her in the ground and gently covers her up. "Night-night, little girl," he whispers, pressing a white stone that matches Martin's into the earth to mark it.

Barbossa is filthy-dirty from all the digging, but this time, he doesn't bother washing, nor does Sophie fuss at him to bathe. There will be time enough for that; for now, they throw a clean blanket over their bed and lie down, clinging to each other, mutely sharing their sorrow, and knowing their family will never feel whole again.

-oOo- FIN -oOo- 


End file.
